On A Dark Stormy Night
by redcandle
Summary: Sansa encounters the Hound on three stormy nights, twice by chance and once by design.


Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and elements from A Song of Ice and Fire belong to George R.R. Martin. No copyright infringement is intended.

The gray clouds that had hung over the city all day burst just as Sansa was leaving the godswood. She was soaked by the time she reached the serpentine stairs. She ran, hoping to reach Maegor's Holdfast before the rain turned the dirt and filth of the yard into mud, but the wind howled fiercer and blew harder, nearly knocking her off her feet. She ducked into a doorway to take shelter.

It was the kind of night where, had she been home, they would have gathered around the fire and Bran would have insisted Old Nan tell a scary story. The rain had put out the torches and the moon and the stars were hidden by black clouds. Thunder crashed overhead as loud as anything she'd ever heard. Sansa shivered in her wet clothes. She felt very lonely.

"Fucking rain," a man cursed. Sansa recognized the Hound's raspy voice before he stumbled into the doorway. Part of her wanted to stay silent so he wouldn't know she was there, but she didn't want him to bump into her.

"It's a terrible storm, my lord."

"Joff's little bird. Out of her cage again."

"I was in the godswood, praying the gods grant Princess Myrcella a safe voyage." Myrcella Baratheon was to set sail for Dorne in a few days where she would be betrothed to a Dornish prince. Sansa was sad to see her go. They were not friends, but sometimes Myrcella invited her to dine with her or walk in the garden.

The Hound laughed. "You mean praying the Dornish beat her black and blue."

"No," Sansa denied truthfully. "I hope she is very happy in Dorne." She hoped Myrcella's prince was kinder than her own prince had turned out to be.

"Don't think the Dornish have forgotten Elia Martell. Cersei hasn't; giving Myrcella to Dorne is the Imp's doing."

They lapsed into silence. Sansa was uncomfortably aware of the Hound's nearness and the smell of wine on his breath. Lightning flashed and for a moment she saw his scarred face and his bright white cloak. _A true knight would offer a lady his cloak to warm her,_ she thought. But Sandor Clegane was not a knight, true or otherwise, and besides his cloak was just as wet as her clothes.

She felt him lean over her. Then she heard him take a deep breath and then another. He was sniffing her. _Like a real dog._

"You smell nice," he said. "Not like the whore I just fucked. You pay a gold dragon and a whore still smells like a whore, only a more expensive one."

Sansa didn't know what to say to that. The rain seemed to be easing. She took a tentative step out, but the Hound yanked her back. The storm raged worse than before.

"It's my name day," he said suddenly.

"I wish you many more name days and the most happiness." Sansa wondered how old he was. His burned face made it difficult to determine his age but she didn't think he was too old.

He gave a bitter bark of laughter. "Killing Gregor will make me happy. I only need to live long enough to do that."

She thought of reminding him that it was an unforgivable sin to slay one's own brother, but she knew it would make him angry and anyway his brother was so monstrous that perhaps the gods would forgive the Hound if he did kill him. Sansa watched the rain with her arms wrapped around herself, wondering if she'd ever see her home again.

"The storm's dying down. It'll be over soon," the Hound said.

Sansa was afraid, but she no longer felt quite so lonely.

It was very dark, long past time when they ordinarily made camp for the night. But with a blizzard coming, Brienne had decided to keep riding until they reached the inn. Sansa hoped they made it. Weathering a snow storm outdoors would be worse for the knowledge that they'd nearly made it to shelter.

They heard the sound of trouble before they saw it. If it had been up to her, Sansa would have ridden away from the shouting and the clashing steel. She would have hidden and prayed the gods kept her unharmed one more night. But Brienne thought people might need their help so she led them towards the noise with her sword in hand.

Sansa admired her courage but at times like these she wished Brienne was less heroic. The Maid of Tarth was as good with a sword as any knight, but Sansa wasn't and if harm befell Brienne, she would be left alone and unprotected. She had no illusions about what would happen to her then.

There was enough light from the campfires and the torches for her to make out the banners and badges of the men fighting. Lannister soldiers had attacked men sworn to the Faith, or perhaps it had been the other way around. Ever since Cersei Lannister had been imprisoned by the High Septon and her soldiers had stormed the Great Sept of Baelor to free her, there had been conflict between the two forces throughout the crownlands and the riverlands.

Brienne hung back, as if unsure what to do. This was no band of innocents being set upon by robbers; this was a battle. She carried Jaime Lannister's sword, which Sansa thought might mean Brienne felt bound to aid the lions, but to attack men sworn to the Seven was akin to declaring one's self an enemy of the Seven Themselves.

Knights who fought in the name of the Seven were called the Warrior's Sons, but one knight seemed born of the Stranger. His horse, his armor, and his clothing were all dark, and he delivered death with each swing of his sword. Sansa watched him, unable to look away from the carnage he wrought. She might have felt sorry for the men dying, but they were Lannister men and they would have hurt her if they knew who she was.

Then the black knight laughed, and Sansa knew who he was. She remembered the riot in King's Landing the day Princess Myrcella had sailed for the Dorne, and the Hound rescuing her and laughing that same laugh while he killed her attackers. She was certain of it when the fighting was over and he dismounted. His height and his build were right, and his face remained concealed by a hood when he removed his helm.

"Sheath your sword, ser," called one of the holy knights.

While Brienne put away her sword and corrected the man's incorrect assumption about her sex, Sansa watched Sandor Clegane - if that was who he was - and wondered if he recognized her. It had been two years since he'd last seen her. _He kissed me that night._ Sansa felt her face heat as she remembered the kiss.

"We can help you tend to the wounded," Brienne was saying.

"Thank you, but it is not decent for two women to pass the night among men. Some of my brothers will see you safely to the inn you mentioned."

The blizzard began as Sansa and Brienne rode away escorted by several of the knights, Sandor Clegane among them. Sansa kept her head down to keep the snow out of her eyes, but she couldn't resist taking occasional peeks at Clegane, to see if he was watching her. Though with his face hidden like that, it was difficult to tell where his gaze was.

One of the others was asking Brienne who they were and why they were traveling unattended. Sansa hastened to answer; Brienne hated lying and was quite bad at it, while Sansa had had to become good at it.

"We accompanied my sister to her wedding at her bridegroom's keep. On our way home, we were attacked by outlaws and my father and all our guards were killed. Only my cousin's skill with a sword saved us."

"Lucky maids," commented one man.

A more pious brother corrected him. "The gods watched over them."

Sansa wondered what he would think if he knew the truth - that Sansa's mother Lady Catelyn had been resurrected from the dead by the Red God and Brienne was fulfilling an oath to deliver Sansa safely to her. The Faith had decreed the Red God a demon and his followers demon-worshipers; the Warrior's Sons would consider Sansa's mother and her men enemies as much as the Lannister soldiers they had just slaughtered.

Sandor Clegane didn't speak at all during the brief ride. Sansa wondered whether he wanted to avoid being recognized or whether he'd taken some vow of silence. He'd always had something to say to her when she'd known him before. When they reached the inn at the crossroads, he was the one to help her dismount. Sansa thought he might say or do something to acknowledge their prior acquaintance then, but his hands stayed on her no longer than it took to lift her from her horse and he said nothing.

Sansa watched him leave with his brothers-in-faith without looking back. She knew she should be relieved he had not recognized her, but she couldn't help being a little disappointed.

Sansa knew Sandor Clegane was here because he wanted to kill his brother more than anything, not because she was the one in danger from Gregor. Yet she couldn't help hoping that defending her meant something more to him than if it had been some other lady Cersei Lannister had sent her monster after. He sat in the hall watching the fire long after dinner was over, and Sansa sat watching him.

When the fire started to die, she waited for a servant to add more wood, but none came. Everyone else had gone to bed. Sansa rose from her seat - once the throne of the kings of winter - and rekindled the fire. Then she sat beside Sandor. She waited for him to speak but he didn't say anything.

She picked up his cup and took a sip, confirming what she already knew. He was drinking water. With Winterfell in need of rebuilding, there wasn't much money for wine. Everyone, even Sansa, usually drank locally-brewed ale. But since Gregor Clegane might soon slaughter them all, Sansa had approved the opening of the few casks of wine they did have.

"You're no longer fond of wine?" she asked.

"Surprised I'm no longer a drunk?"

Sansa thought it best not to answer. There was a stillness in the hall that gave the illusion of tranquility despite the fierce winter storm raging outside. She had imagined that being back at Winterfell would mean things were the way they'd been when she was a little girl. But with her brothers dead and her mother away searching for her missing sister, and the castlefolk all strangers, the ones she'd known dead or held captive at the Dreadfort, Winterfell was simply stone.

"Do you think the Mountain can be killed?" Sansa wasn't certain Gregor could be killed by anyone. After all, he'd already died of poison and spear wounds, and been resurrected by sorcery.

Sandor snorted. "I've killed a dead man once before. Aye, and seen him rise again, but Gregor'll not rise after I've chopped him into half a hundred pieces."

It was gruesome to think of, but perhaps that would serve to put a final end to the Mountain. Tonight, though, Sansa preferred to dwell on more pleasant possibilities. She'd always known Sandor wanted more than the kiss he'd taken the night of the battle in King's Landing, but he'd made no advances toward her since arriving at the castle. Thinking he might need encouragement, she put her hand on his shoulder and leaned close.

"The wolf bitch is in heat, is she?"

"I thought..."

"You thought I take my vows to the Seven as lightly as I took my Kingsguard vows."

It was a perfectly fair assumption to make. He would be violating the Seven's most sacrosanct law when he killed his brother; compared to that, breaking his vow of celibacy seemed insignificant. She pressed her mouth to his, but before it could truly become a kiss, he pulled her over his lap.

Sansa gave a squawk of surprise, and then a yelp of outrage as his hand landed hard on her bottom. His hand rose and fell ten times. It stung through her heavy woolen dress and underthings, though she knew Sandor was only using a small fraction of his strength. She wriggled, not really trying to get away, but unable to hold still.

Abruptly he let her up. Sansa gave him an aggrieved look. "You spanked me!"

"It seemed the proper punishment for tempting a brother of the Faith," he rasped, the look in his eyes far from holy. "Go to bed, or I'll pull up your skirts and spank your bare arse."

Sansa knew he would do it too. She wished him a good night's sleep and fled to the safety of her bedchamber, where she found it difficult to fall asleep. She didn't want to die and she didn't want Sandor to die trying to kill Gregor. _I could have servants pour oil on the Mountain and order archers to shoot him with fire arrows._ Sandor wouldn't like it, but it might save them. _We will survive,_ Sansa told herself. She'd have other chances to tempt Sandor.


End file.
